


useful kindness

by Nyxierose



Category: Timeless (TV 2016)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Post-Canon, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-29
Updated: 2018-07-30
Packaged: 2019-06-17 22:34:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,920
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15471600
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nyxierose/pseuds/Nyxierose
Summary: "She knew there was gentleness in him but this is something else entirely."Very hesitantly a non-linear multichapter // set of connected ficlets.





	1. Chapter 1

The damn thing just won't close.

Lucy has been gallivanting across the timeline for close to three years now, and one might assume that she's competent with just about any era of fashion by now, but corsets remain an issue. They were designed, she is convinced, for no other purpose than to exasperate the female species. The general form stayed about the same for a hundred years, so it's a familiar hell, but finding the midpoint of being able to breathe while having the piece tight enough to stay on her body is, well…

Normally, in a situation this bad, she'd stick her head out and ask Rufus to help her. Not _ideal_ , not even close, but the least of evils. Their relationship has always been and will always be completely platonic, the closest she's ever going to have to a brother, and they've gone through the awkwardness enough times that she thinks he's immune to the sight of her breasts. (God, the fact that she thinks that sentence is sane is probably an issue, but she files that away for her "when I'm in my own timeline and functional" to-do list.) But due to some logistical issue, Connor's their pilot for this mission, and Lucy doubts she will ever be desperate enough to ask him for any help with _anything_ that is not electronic.

So, she needs to figure this thing out on her own, because things are still weird enough with Wyatt without a wardrobe malfunction, and option three…

Option three, the calamity on legs that is Garcia Flynn, has clearly developed a superhuman sense of when she needs help she doesn't want to ask for. He knocks on the door of the shed she's attempting to change in, a particular code they've practiced over the past few months in various times and places - how strange that he's still so formal when she has _no_ problem barging into his spaces unannounced - and she opens the door because dammit, if he's in his usual state of panic, he can at least make himself useful.

"I need a very strange favor," she mutters, attempting to make eye contact. And failing. Miserably.

She knows, she figured it out a year ago, that he's physically attracted to her. She knows that, even in the questionable lighting of her current location, this chemise is a formality at best and certain parts of her body are much more visible than she would usually be okay with. And she knows that, in light of those two issues, asking the man to _touch_ her is likely going to be a disaster.

But she's out of other options, and she thinks she can justify it, and at least he's still standing. Staring holes into the ground, yes, but still doing better than that one time she _swore_ the bathroom door was locked. (It was apparently not, and neither of them has any desire to talk about that disaster.)

Lucy decides that repeating herself more clearly is a logical next step. "Help. Please. I just need you to lace this."

Flynn makes an incoherent wounded noise, which she interprets as a yes, and moves closer to her. "What do I… how…"

Right, because he's the only main member of the team who hasn't gone through the headache of getting a girlfriend _out_ of one of these abominations. Which means explaining, and probably more touching than is necessary, and Lucy is starting to understand why he hates this scenario.

She takes matters into her own hands as best she can, turning so her back is towards him and wrapping the corset around herself. The front hooks are good, and there's that part done, but the back is a mess and-

"Just tighten the laces," she mutters. "I will tell you when to stop."

She's not used to the physical presence of him, she thinks as he stands behind her and anchors his hands on her hips for a very unnecessary heartbeat before beginning the project. She ought to be - she slips into his bed often enough, when her brain won't shut up at two in the morning, and they usually wake tangled up in each other and it's become amazingly normal. She could easily become comfortable with this man getting all over her, and she wishes he would but-

"Like that?"

"Yeah. Keep… keep going."

He learns quickly. She already knew that, but it's one thing to have something on paper and quite another to feel it in reality. Efficient as ever, he loosens and tightens laces as necessary and helps mold the garment to her body while touching her as little as possible. In a couple minutes, it's perfect.

"Is that…?"

"Yes. Thank you."

She twirls around and leans up and, impulsively yet with the weight of having wanted to do this for too damn long, presses her lips to his. A brief echo of a kiss, yet enough to state her intentions and wants.

"Do you need anything else?"

Lucy assesses the situation. On the one hand, that is not even close to how she expected him to respond to affection. On the other, it is _completely_ what she expected and she can practically see the circuits disconnecting in his mind. Being useful to her, as much as he can in any given situation, seems to be how he copes with not knowing how to act on his feelings.

"Not really, but… you'd be good support, if you don't mind."

He looks at her like he's not sure what kind of a request that even is, and she clarifies by steadying herself with a hand on his upper arm as she steps into a petticoat. Support in the physical sense, she figures, is a clear enough signal.

Then the dress, which is actually a three-part horror, and maybe she's moving a little slower than she normally would but it's nice to know that if she trips on this ridiculous skirt, someone will catch her.

She's known that for so long, but admitting it is still strange.

"Are we going to talk about…" She's not sure how to ask if it was okay that she kissed him, if it was okay that she pulled away before it went anywhere, if literally any of this is okay, if-

"Do you need to?"

And once again the sacrificial idiot. She's well aware that Flynn is incapable of being like this with _anyone_ else - she supposes he had to have been with his family, a lifetime and a tragedy ago, but they are gone now and this is no time to think about them - but it's his default mode with her and she has feelings about it.

"I've wanted to do that for a while."

"I know."

"Shit, did I… that one night…" She knows she didn't actually do anything before, but a couple weeks ago she got drunk in a way she didn't intend and said a lot of things she doesn't remember and-

"You were very clear about what you wanted to do to me." He's smiling, so she supposes it's okay. "And you would've tried if I hadn't exiled myself to the couch."

"I'm sorry, I didn't… if you don't…"

"That was not a good time, Lucy. You weren't in control of yourself. Right now, you are."

"So if I kiss you again…"

He closes the distance and oh, she knew there was gentleness in him but this is something else entirely. He leads but grants space for her to change their course if she is so inclined, and his hands on her face feel like they belong there, and maybe it's not technically a first kiss but it's damn near romantic enough to be one.

"To be continued," he murmurs as they break apart.

"And that means…"

"We've been in here too long already. God only knows what they think-"

"Do I look like I care?"

She loops her arms around his neck, mentally flips off the other half of the team, and decides that she is going to get very used to the taste and touch of this man.


	2. trust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Or, that time Lucy SWEARS the door was locked.

It is two in the morning and sleep is just not going to happen.

Normally, Lucy has solutions for this issue. Normally, she'd just wander down the hallway and see if she's not the only person who's too tired to actually close their eyes, but not tonight. They're less than twelve hours removed from a mission that went unexpectedly stressful due to a communication issue, and she highly doubts Flynn wants anything to do with her right now. She does not fault him for this; they have their routines, on the weird nights, but it's no commitment.

She's not that lucky, she can't help thinking. She probably never will be.

So, other options. A hot shower seems like a good solution, enough to relax her body enough, and she doubts anyone else has the same thought. It's late, there's an exhausted energy in the safehouse, and she's pretty sure the other known insomniac is otherwise occupied. (He'd better be.)

And it is, as she closes the door behind her, something she wants. She's got her own bedroom here, though she rarely spends nights there anymore, and personal space shouldn't seem as weird as it is. But the past few months have been chaotic, and she doesn't remember the last time she felt like she had a chance to _breathe_. So much going on, a rescue mission that worked and then a rescue mission that didn't, moving twice in as many months - she thinks, she's not sure what the timing actually was, the first was sudden and the second was much more planned - and realizing how few physical possessions she still has.

The bedroom is a formality. The mostly-empty dresser is a formality. Sometimes, she thinks, her very personhood is a formality.

She turns the water on and then undresses, taking her time removing what feels like not enough layers. She's almost more comfortable in layers of skirts and excessive modesty than in her modern default of oversized shirt and leggings - she stopped caring about anything but comfort once she accepted the madness of her life, and she's not sure if she'll adjust out if this war ever ends - and she wonders what some shrink five years down the line is going to think of that disconnect. If she's alive in five years. If she's ever allowed to discuss any of this with anyone who didn't live it. If-

"No. Too much," she murmurs, slipping into the shower. She's supposed to be turning her mind off, not asking herself questions that will keep her awake all night if she doesn't silence them before they start.

Lucy lets the water cover her and thinks, for the first time in about a decade, about drowning. That one flicker of her past that she cannot explain, perhaps never will, the first time someone rescued her - but not the last, not anymore, not an isolated event. She can't do small spaces anymore, but large bodies of water are no problem at all. If the darkness in her brain gets bad, she thinks, she could easily walk into the ocean with stones in her pockets and complete a cliché. She's not particularly tempted to, but it's definitely an option if she needs it, and-

Wherever that train of thought was going, it is blessedly interrupted as the door opens and-

The. Door. Opens. What the _fuck_.

Lucy swears she locked it, but apparently she did not, and her towel is not within easy reach because _this is not something she should have to worry about in the middle of the night_ , and she pokes her head out from behind the shower curtain and then a little more of her because she would like some kind of an explanation for this please, and she's not sure what exactly she expects to see in the doorframe but an unusually shellshocked Garcia Flynn is not it.

If anything, that's actually _worse_.

She feels like she should say something, but she's a little distracted by the spectacle she's unintentionally created. His eyes wander, desperate for something to latch onto that is not naked skin, and then he short-circuits completely and, well… faints.

Lucy doesn't exactly have a list of things she didn't plan on dealing with tonight, but a large human who is now spread out on the floor and might've hit his head on the sink on the way down is _several_ levels of no thank you. And yet it's a weird enough situation with just her, and she is absolutely not waking up someone else and getting them in here to deal with it. At all. No, this little disaster is going to stay between the two of them and they are never going to talk about it and everything will be absolutely fine.

Under the circumstances, she decides that the sane thing to do is get dressed before she causes further injury, so she does. Her hair will dry weird in a messy bun, but she'll worry about that in the morning, and the sweater she's been sleeping in - one of his, she notes, and she wonders if that's at all weird - is thick enough that putting on a bra is optional. Otherwise, easy enough to get presentable, and then onto hoping she still remembers pieces of that one first-aid badge she did during her brief stint as a Girl Scout twenty-odd years ago.

He just fainted, she repeats to herself. It is not the end of the world. He is breathing and he has a pulse. He will be okay.

She maneuvers a footstool under his ankles - she's pretty sure that's supposed to help when dealing with an unconscious person, or at least she's seen it on enough TV shows that she figures it's worth a shot - and waits.

A few minutes later, his eyes open. This is unfortunately not the first time she's waited around for him to regain full consciousness, but it _is_ the first time it was her fault and she supposes she ought to feel bad about that and-

"I did not mean to-"

Already apologizing. Okay, fine, that was awkward, but it was a very accidental kind of awkward and he's repaid his karmic debt via minor head injury and-

"Are you okay? You might've hit your head…"

"Doesn't feel any worse than usual," he murmurs, and that's not at all reassuring but now is not the right time for her to ask some very pointed questions about his pain tolerance. "I didn't mean to intrude, Lucy. I should've heard the running water and-"

"Shit happens. You didn't mean to, and this is what I get for not making absolutely sure I'd hit the lock, and better you than anyone else…"

That last comment is almost unintentional, but she can tell from the way he looks up at her that it was the right thing to say.

"Thank you."

"Can you… do you think you can get on your feet?"

"I can try."

She gets up quickly and offers her hand, and he does manage to get upright without any significant difficulty.

"C'mon," she murmurs, not breaking their connection. "We're waiting this out. If you have a concussion-"

"I do not have a concussion, Lucy."

"Are you absolutely sure?"

"Doesn't feel like the time I did. Yeah, I'm sure."

"Too bad. You're stuck with me tonight."

He gives her a look that makes it very clear he doesn't mind that situation at all, and somehow they manage to get down the hallway to his room without any further disasters.

"You don't have to stay," he reminds her. "I'll be okay on my own."

"I know, but… I want to. Someone has to keep an eye on you. And besides, you're warm."

He doesn't fight this. He never does, on the nights she's determined not to be alone. And it is so easy for them to arrange themselves on the mattress, as innocently entwined as possible and as familiar with each other as two people who've been doing this on a regular basis for six months could be, and she can't help but think that she could move her singular cardboard box of stuff in here and nobody would bat an eyelash.

Not that she's going to, but she _could_.

"Still okay?" she murmurs once they're in a decent position.

"Bit of a headache, but I won't die."

"Don't… don't talk like that. You are allowed to feel pain."

"I didn't hit my head on anything on the way down, but tile floor is a bad landing. That enough?"

Lucy nods, not sure what to say. She caused this, and she feels terrible about it, and-

"I'm not mad at you. Just at myself. I violated your space, I-"

"You didn't mean to," she reminds him.

"Accident doesn't make it better. I still…"

"I still trust you. I still know you would never hurt me. This doesn't change how I feel about you. Let that be enough."

She falls asleep curled up around him, to the comforting rhythm of his heartbeat, like she has on so many other nights before. And like so many mornings before, she wakes with his arm around her waist, protective even in subconscious.

"We're not talking about this," she breathes, well aware that her partner is still out and won't hear anything she says right now. "But I still trust you. I always will."


End file.
